


shooting at the stars

by schuyleryette



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War I, Christmas, Christmas Truce of 1914, M/M, not really shippy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-20 16:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13150413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schuyleryette/pseuds/schuyleryette
Summary: It's 1914 in Ypres, Belgium. American Volunteer soldier Ryan Bergara has been in the trenches for four months of endless artillery fire, bone-deep cold, and constant fear of the enemy. But on Christmas Eve, the gunfire falls silent, and they climb out of their trenches for a Christmas truce. Ryan, of course, meets Shane Madej, the Polish soldier across the way.





	shooting at the stars

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote this as an original piece back in 2014 for the anniversary of the Christmas Truce, but I never got around to finish it until I recently found it in my folder and decided to make it my Shyan Christmas fic this year. You would think that since I’m a historian in making studying history and museum studies that I would write more historical AUs, right? Wrong. I get too involved with research and it's lucky if I ever finish *Reylo WWII story glaring behind my back*. Anyway, the story is semi incomplete, but if it gains a strong feedback then I might continue with a second arc. Inspired by the real-life Christmas truce of 1914, which was an unofficial ceasefire in World War I in which the German and British soldiers sang Christmas carols across the lines, exchanged gifts, and basically were all hunky-dory for a handful of days as shown in the pictures below with soldiers playing soccer and a cross commemorating the field of the Christmas Truce that I took a picture of when I visited Ypres, Belgium two years ago.
> 
> I tried to make it as accurate as possible. Before the United States entered the war in 1917, there were American Volunteers Across the Western Front there were accounts from British soldiers of: a German soldier singing Stille Nacht, a game of football in No Man’s Land, and an exchange of buttons, caps, autographs, and alcohol (most likely rum). Probably not all in one place, but eh, its a story.
> 
> Oh and here is the customary "I'm sorry Ryan and Shane" disclaimer: I respect them both as people immensely!!!! Just here because I love them, love BFU, love to have fun, and have NO self control whatsoever.

**_“Why do they never tell us that you are poor devils like us, that your mothers are just as anxious as ours, and that we have the same fear of death, and the same dying and the same agony—Forgive me, comrade; how could you be my enemy?”  - All Quiet on the Western Front_ **

**__ **

**__ **

_Ypres, Belgium. Christmas Eve 1914_

The trenches are covered with a thin layer of ice. The air was cold and the night sky was clear. Ryan does not dare lift his head above the ground, but he knew if he were that No Man’s would be veiled in ice, white covering the red of spilled blood. Ryan sat huddled in the trenches thrumming his pencil against his notepad. For the past several hours he had been thinking of what to say to his family back home about his conditions in the trenches and fighting without worrying them so much. Currently, it was cold, wet, and miserable, more so than usual. It had rained only the night before, and even though all the men had been huddled underneath tarps as best they could, the water had risen to their ankles, then to their calves, and no one had the energy to muck it all out. Down the way, someone was having a violent fit of coughs. He didn’t sound so well.

For days, weeks, and months it had felt like all Ryan could hear was the crash of metal, the whistle of bullets, and the pounding of shells.

Tonight, it is quiet. Without the normal cloud cover, it's colder than normal. Ryan looked up at the stars, his hands cold against his rifle. It was Christmas Eve. Ryan was incredulous to realize it. He had stopped counting days for a while and wasn’t until earlier that today was the twenty-fourth of December. Had he really been here for four months already? Had it really been two weeks since they lost Brent, shot through the head after climbing over the trench and going into No Man’s Land to ascertain the enemy’s position? Could it really be Christmas in a place like this that could be considered hell on earth?

Putting the pencil and notebook down, he folded his arms together and put his hands under his armpits to keep himself warm. It was a futile effort; he could barely remember the last time he was warm. His whole body was stiff and every so often Ryan would wiggle his toes just to be sure that he still could. There was a high fear of contracting gangrene in the trenches, something that always sent a pang of fear through Ryan’s body. He remembered one lad, shuddering as his feet swelled too large for his boots until they were forced to cut off the leather, exposing the blistered, swollen, black skin over the fungus. Ryan nearly felt bile rising in his throat as he dwelled on the thought. They had to amputate the soldier’s foot, and every soldier had to omit the image from his mind because if you dwell on anything that could kill you in the trenches or even out there in No Man’s Land, the thought would drive anyone would mad. It was either be killed in battle, die of gangrene, or die with a bullet through your head by your own hand.

In the dead of night, he knows that he isn't the only one awake. Next to him, Steven leaned against the wall, his eyes closed, but Ryan knew all it would take to wake him would be a tap on the shoulder. Ryan leaned his head against the earthen wall of the trench, thinking about his family at home. They were probably finished with Christmas Eve dinner and getting ready to surround the tree to open presents. His mother entering the family room with a tray of Christmas treats and goodies and hot cocoa. His father was probably asleep in his armchair with a newspaper on his lap. His brother would arrive home for the holidays with his wife and their little girl who was no doubt already getting into her presents. Ryan smiled sadly, wishing he was with them. Such was the life of an American who volunteered to fight in a war that his country had no qualms in but went to enlist in search of an adventure filled with heroics and glory that would end in a year. How wrong and naïve he had been. He frowned over the letter he attempted to write earlier. He didn’t want to worry them about his troubles.

All of a sudden, Ryan was awakened from his reverie by a soft sound. It was faint, but he could make out that it was going up and down in melody and was definitely German. It was a song; and apparently, Ryan wasn’t the only one who heard as the soldiers’ ears perked at melody coming from the other side. Slowly, Ryan poked his head barely out of the trench, but he was able to see tiny Christmas trees lit with candles and lanterns had appeared. He could hear the murmurings of the boys suggesting taking shots at the trees, but Ryan was just glad the Germans weren’t trying to shoot them _. ‘Where had they gotten all those little trees?’_ He wondered. One soldier attempted to poke his head out as well but was immediately and roughly pushed down by the comrade beside him.

“Are you bloody daft?” He hissed. “It could be a trap!”

“What the hell are those boches doing?” Another soldier murmured.

The singing grew louder and louder, the lyrics and melody becoming much more distinct and familiar: ‘ _Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht, Alles schläft; einsam wacht…’_

 _‘Silent Night,’_ Ryan realized. This was his mother’s favorite Christmas carol. Every Christmas they would sit together on the piano to play and sing Christmas carols, but Silent Night was always the one most played and sung.

The voice floated through the still air, carried by the wind across the barren No Man's Land. It was a soft, wavering sound, but it grew stronger as it progressed, and then it was joined by another voice, and another. Suddenly, it sounded as if there were a choir where the enemy had been only yesterday, loud and uncommonly upbeat. Despite being sung in a language that some of the soldiers couldn’t understand, it was beautiful but they were afraid to leave the trench to investigate it. It was like a siren beckoning them to come out and join them in their haunting song. Then again, sirens were always harbingers of destruction and death.

Ryan and the rest of his comrades went to sleep astonished. The Germans continued to sing all through the night. The next morning once the sun got over the horizon, Ryan dared to turn around and poke his head out again to see two Fritzes hoist a wooden sign that said in bold letters, ‘Frohe Weihnachten’ and staked it on the ground. Then there came a voice-“Hallo? English soldiers… where are your Christmas trees?” - followed by great laughter from their trench.

Ryan was shocked by this bizarre situation, but the oddest thing of all was that the voice that had called out to them sounded so familiar. It sounded like a voice that he hadn’t heard in over five years if not more. One of their riflemen, a Zack Evans, through several cans of Pearl Jams into No Man’s Land, very near the German line. One of the German officers poked his head up, waving at them as if he wanted Ryan and the other soldiers to come up as well! They were all bewildered. It was a trap, it had to be because no soldier in his right mind would voluntarily climb out of the safety of his hole to tell motion to his enemy, to men who had been trained to shoot on sight, to come over and do what- talk? It was lunacy! No one moved. None of the men were sure what they should do. Then, against his better judgment, Ryan found himself climbing over the lip of the trench and walking over to greet the enemy.

 “What are you doing?” Steven asked, but doesn’t stop him. No one stopped him, but everyone watched. Ryan knew they thought he was a dead man walking.

Ryan stepped over the barbed wire and his enemy copied him. He could see a couple heads pop up from the German trench, only their helmets and tentative eyes above the ground. Ryan’s heart raced in his chest as he stepped forward, over the mud and ice of no man’s land. Behind him, he could hear his fellow soldiers whispering and he could feel Steven’s eyes are on his back. As he got closer and got a better look at the soldier, Ryan felt that everything was becoming slow motion. The soldier was tall and gangly, and lean build with a long face. His brown hair was so in disarray that it appeared it had a mind of its own on how it should look. His dark brown eyes were intense, but, just like Ryan’s own deep light hazel, tentative weariness was registered as they regarded one another.

Ryan stopped short. He stammered. The German soldier’s gaze roved over him, sizing him up. Ryan held still for his scrutiny, knowing that he didn’t look all that impressive himself: ripped boots, uniform scavenged and patched together to keep him from freezing, thin, haggard face and hollow eyes. But the solider seemed satisfied with whatever he saw, because he said at last, “Merry Christmas.”

The soldier grinned, a shocking and breathless thing that changed his entire face.

His accent was thick but understandable. After a moment, Ryan asked, slowly, so that he could be understood, “How do you say that in German? Merry Christmas in  _Deutsch?”_  He paused, reaching for his hopelessly inadequate knowledge of German.  _“Ja?”_

“I can speak English,” The man’s lips quirked up in mirth.

Ryan almost wheezed in surprise and delight. “You do?”

“And I’m actually Polish, so Wesołych Świąt!”

“What?”

“It’s Merry Christmas.”

“Oh.” Ryan tried to pronounce it, and the other man’s smile widened.

 _“_ _Wesołych Świąt_ _,”_ he repeated, more slowly.

Ryan’s tongue snarled on the odd consonants and butchered them, and the Pole chuckled, the sound a low rumble in his chest. Ryan half-glared at him, though he couldn’t stop his own smile. “Don’t mock me.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” the Pole said, but the gleam in his eyes said otherwise.

Ryan’s smile turned warm and he extended his hand. “Ryan Bergara.”

“Shane Madej.” The Pole grabbed his hand and shook likewise.

Ryan let the touch of their hands linger, wondering how long it had been since he had been touched so gently. How long had it been since he’d had a civil conversation with anyone? Even in the trenches, all their conversations were shouted, or coughed, or punctuated with gunfire. Exchanging names and pleasantries, laughing—it was terrifically refreshing.

Behind Shane, Ryan saw more Germans lifting themselves out of the trench. None of them had weapons. He turned to see the British soldiers watching from their own trenches, eyes on Ryan and Shane.

“No one should see a sight like this on Christmas,” Shane said, catching Ryan’s attention. Ryan turned and followed his gaze to see the broken bodies of broken soldiers. British, French, and German bodies scattered alike all over No Man’s Land. The sight of the broken and mangled bodies reminded Ryan a grim version of the toy soldiers that he would use to play with on his porch on warm summer afternoons. Behind Shane, a few German soldiers lifted one of the bodies to it back to their side of the trenches. 

“They deserve to have a proper burial than being left out here to rot,” Shane reasoned, a sentiment that Ryan couldn’t agree more with.

“You bury your dead, and we’ll do the same. No one fires on either side,” Ryan said. Shane gave a short nod.

With an agreement finalized by both enemy sides, Ryan turned to his fellow comrades and gestured for them to come up. Steven was the first to climb out, followed by a few young soldiers. The morning was filled with soldiers looking for their fallen comrades, mourning them, and burying them with barely a few spoken words. Ryan saw Shane watching the two groups on either side of the field, some silently carrying back bodies and others openly mourning their friends. Shane looked up to see the younger man watching, and motioned with his head to come stand beside him. Ryan tentatively came to stand beside him watching the morose sight.

He reached into his coat pocket for a pack of cigarettes and his matchbox. The Asian American put one between his lips and held out another to the Pole. “Need a light?”

Shane happily took the cigarette between two fingers, leaning forward as Ryan lighted it for him before lighting his own.

“Thanks,” Shane replied as he pulled in his first breath.

“Don’t mention it,” Ryan shrugged, acting more confident than he felt as the smoke exhaling from his lips.

They continued to smoke and watched on as both of their sides buried their dead. Ryan lowed his head, lips turned down and his eyes sad. From the corner of his eye, Shane’s face was identical and it looked like it was taking all of the strength to not break down. Not just days ago they were shooting each other from opposing sides, but Ryan could feel the same pulling tug in his chest and the prickle in his eyes. Shane stomped out his cigarette and wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve quick before Ryan could see.

“It’s okay,” Ryan said, kicking the mud beneath his feet. “Me too.”

It was surreal to stand next to Shane. In the middle of the field on Christmas morning, they stood guard between opposing soldiers as if they were the sentries of No Man’s Land.

Soldiers, German, French, and British alike, wandered across the field. As morning faded, soldiers stood in the ice-covered field, and tentatively look at each other, just as Ryan and Shane had only moments before. They shook hands, exchanged words as best they could. Someone on the German side had pulled out the rum and offered it to a couple British privates. Ryan saw Steven speaking broken German to a soldier who was holding a German newspaper. Amazing. Had these men truly been killing each other not even a days ago?

“tak _, to_ naprawde _jest niesamowitę,_ ” Shane commented, seemingly reading the other’s thoughts as they surveyed the vast wasteland. “Who would have thought?”

Ryan quirked a grin in his direction. “I think we’d call this a regular Christmas miracle.”

“Yes,” Shane wheezed, a matching grin sport his own face now.

Two opposing sides, both alike in dignity and fighting for different causes and beliefs. But here they were coming together on one Christmas morning as though they were greeting one another like old friends. Perhaps two sides of the trenches weren’t so different, really.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas and have a Happy New Year!


End file.
